The Man in the Red Pantaloons
by LadyofDodge
Summary: A hand, heavy and rough, reached out from the sleeve of a dark blue wool uniform and grabbed her arm. "Say there, ain't you a pretty little puss? What's your name, sweet thing? You wouldn't give me the time a day last night in that sportin' house, kept walkin' away and ignorin' me..." A story about Kitty during the Civil War.
1. Chapter 1

**The Man in the Red Pantaloons**

**Dodge City**

**July 1876**

He sat quiet and alone in the farthest corner of the smoky barroom, squinting through the gray-blue vapor, never shifting his admiring gaze from the face and form of the prettiest woman he had seen in…well, in more than a decade. He watched her deftly draw beers for the thirsty cowboys lining the scarred bar. And then, a moment later, he observed her seamless transition from barkeep to waitress as she carried heavy trays of beer and whiskey to poker players gathered around several of the felt covered tables. With a pat on the shoulder here and a hearty laugh there, she skillfully worked her way back to the batwing doors just in time to tilt her head upward and smile a tender good-bye into the tired face of a very large man with the silver star of a U.S. marshal pinned to his shirt.

It was her smile that dropped the last cog of his memory wheel into place, and he knew for sure. She had been younger then. So had he. Even then, he had been captivated by the flaming red hair framing the sweet young face. And within moments he had also been witness to the fiery temper that more than matched the cascading mane. He grinned broadly at the memory and wondered idly what one of the greatest beauties New Orleans had ever seen was doing in a little western cow town.

She brushed by him with a tray of drinks for an adjacent table. As she wended her way back toward the bar, he rose and stood in her path. "You're Kitty." It was a statement, not a question.

Instantly cautious, she replied, "I am. Have we met?"

He nodded. "A long time ago." His left hand unconsciously reached across his chest to touch the coat sleeve carefully folded and pinned to his right shoulder. "Perhaps if you pictured me in baggy red pantaloons…"

"Johnny? Johnny Durant?" Her eyebrow arched. "Is it really you?"

"It is." He bowed. "Jean-Yves Durant, your most humble—and totally delighted—servant."

She dropped the empty tray on the table, wrapped both hands around his forearm and smiled into the dark brown eyes of the slender Creole. "Well, Jean-Yves Durant, you have no idea how happy I am to see you." She glanced around the crowded room. "But, listen, I'm kinda busy right now. You hang on to this table, and I'll be back soon as I get a chance."

"Right," he agreed and sat down to nurse his solitary beer.

XXX

As she hustled from the tables to the bar and back again, Kitty's mind drifted backward to the day she first met Johnny Durant, a gallant young soldier of the Confederacy. A day she remembered with an odd combination of gratification and humiliation. It had been so long ago, and she had been so very young….

_A hand, heavy and rough, reached out from the sleeve of a dark blue wool uniform and grabbed her arm. "Say there, ain't you a pretty little puss? What's your name, sweet thing? You wouldn't give me the time a day last night in that sportin' house, kept walkin' away and ignorin' me. Well, let me tell you somethin', Missy, no one ignores Sergeant Major Martin Winchester and gets away with it." He sneered and pulled her slight form close against his body, one beefy hand pawing at her breast. "Specially not the likes a you."_

"_Take your hands off of me," the fifteen year old spat at her attacker._

"_You entertain the troops, puss? I just bet you do. I bet them rebs stand at attention—all over," he winked lewdly, "when you're around."_

"_I said let go of me!" She pushed at his chest to no avail, succeeding only in overturning her palmetto basket and scattering yams and turnips across the dirt floor of the open air market._

_As he pulled her tighter and slid his hand lower, she spotted a large bowl of farm fresh eggs for sale at the stand behind the sergeant's back. She stopped struggling and relaxed into his embrace, at the same time scooping two of the eggs into her hand and smashing them on the back of his head and neck._

_He cursed and sputtered and pushed her to arm's length, his hand tightening around her wrist. "You little whore, you're gonna pay for that," he shouted._

_A young man wearing the distinctive tight blue jacket and baggy red pantaloons of a Louisiana Zouave appeared from the other side of the market. He spoke to her in rapid French and then turned to the Yankee soldier, asking in English, "Is there a problem here? My sister can sometimes be…uh, impetuous."_

_She stomped her foot. "Impetuous! He…he, did you see what he did…to say nothing of what he was about to do?"_

"_Calmer, ma petite soeur," the young Zouave spoke quietly to her._

_She stomped her foot again. "I will __**not**__ calm down, and I am not your si…."_

"_Easy, little sister." The look he shot her clearly told her to allow him to do the talking. "This soldier is dripping with raw egg. He needs to clean up, and we need to get you home. It is almost time for…for your piano lesson." The Zouave turned his attention back to the Yankee. "Please forgive my sister. She is quite young, and she is not accustomed to such…uh, such attentions from men, especially not from strangers. I fear you gave her quite a fright."_

"_Not accustomed to…who are you kidding? I saw her in a whore house just last night." He shouted and passed a handkerchief over the back of his neck, eyeing the Zouave suspiciously. "Or don't you know where your sister goes at night?"_

_The Zouave spun back to the girl in surprise. "Vraiment? This is true, ma petite?"_

_She dropped her head ashamedly and nodded. "Oui."_

_With one hand holding tight to her arm, he turned back to the Yankee. "I assure you this will be dealt with at home. Again, I apologize for my sister's behavior and I bid you adieu." Grasping her elbow, the Zouave quickly led her to the sidewalk outside the market._

_Maintaining as much dignity as possible with egg yolk dripping from his collar, the Yankee shouted after them. "There are consequences for this, you know. I'm on General Butler's staff. The order clearly states… I can have you arrested for this. I can…."_

Shuddering at the memory, Kitty drew a bracing breath and brushed a strand of hair from her face. For nearly an hour she continued to work the floor, carrying drinks to the rowdy and randy cowboys who, just off the trail from Texas with three months' worth of dust in their throats and three months' worth of wages in their pockets, had descended on the little prairie town in pursuit of whiskey and women.

TBC

**NOTE: **Zouaves were among the many volunteer fighting units of Louisiana (and several other states) during the Civil War. They wore baggy red pantaloons and short blue jackets (visualize French Foreign Legion here), marched in double time and lay on their backs to load their rifles. Seems awkward to be, but...


	2. Chapter 2

**The Man in the Red Pantaloons**

**Chapter Two**

**New Orleans**

**August 1862**

Never loosening the grip he had on her elbow, the Zouave quickly led her out of earshot and hurried her along the esplanade until they reached the relative safety of the crowded Café du Monde. He seated her at a small table away from the perimeter and sat down beside her. "I need some coffee, and we need to talk. But first…what's your name?"

"What business is it of yours what my name is?"

He couldn't help but admire her spunk. In spite of her seeming compliance, her spirit had not been completely squelched. "Whoa…wait a minute. For starters, I just rescued you from a damned Yankee's clutches. And now I'm buying you coffee and beignets." He smiled beguilingly into her angry face. "Surely one of those good deeds entitles me to know your name."

She offered him the slightest hint of a smile, and her voice was quiet as she replied, "My knight in shining armor—or in red pantaloons as the case may be. My name is Kitty, and I'm...grateful for your help."

"Ah ha, a thank you, too." He chuckled. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Kitty. I'm Johnny. Jean-Yves Durant to be precise. We need to figure a way to get you out of this mess. If he really is on Butler's staff—even if he isn't—he can make things very unpleasant for you."

"I forgot about the stupid order, but that baboon had no right to manhandle me like that."

"I agree, but you're going to be the one in trouble, not him." The waiter set a plate of piping hot beignets on the table along with two steaming cups of very dark coffee. Durant nodded his thanks and passed a napkin to his companion before reaching for one of the sugary treats. He savored the first bite and then asked curiously, "Do you really work in a…um…sporting house?"

Kitty took a swallow of the chicory-laced coffee before responding. "Not exactly."

"What kind of answer is that? Either you work there or you don't."

"Okay, then, I don't."

"But he did see you there last night, right?"

The look she gave him was defiant. "Yes, he saw me."

"Then you do work there."

"No, I don't work there. Not technically." She looked him in the eye. "Work implies that one gets paid for services rendered. I don't get wages. The things I do are in partial re-payment for my room and board."

His eyes widened. "What the…. You're saying you live in a…a…house of ill repute? And you do…what you do…for nothing? Just how old are you, anyway?"

She dabbed her napkin at the powdered sugar coating the corners of her mouth. "I'm sixteen." At his doubtful stare, she added, "Almost." When he still looked dubious, she amended her answer. "Well, I will be…...next February."

"_Mon Dieu!"_ He was impressed by her bravado, but outraged at the very idea. "What kind of person would put a child out to…?"

She interrupted. "Why do people always assume the worst? It's really very simple." She twirled her spoon in the thick black beverage. "I've lived there for a few years now, but it's not what you think. I do chores—like the marketing. I also empty ashtrays, I keep the spittoons polished, and I keep the carpets swept. I do mending, too, whipping a piece of torn lace or sewing a ripped seam. And, I see to it that the glassware is always clean and shining, and that the caviar and crawfish dishes are always filled and chilled. I bring out fresh decks of cards, I carry drinks to the tables—and I smile sweetly and make myself charming in every way I can." This time the grin she gave him was genuine. "I do not get paid. And I _**do not **_take men upstairs! Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go back to the market. I have shopping to do, and my basket…."

He put a detaining hand on her arm. "Your basket will be safe, and if not we'll get you a new one. Sit and talk for a while. We still need to devise a way to protect you from the Yankee occupation and that hateful order."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Her tone was suspicious, as if she expected that he would want something in return.

He shrugged. "Maybe because you were in trouble, and I just did what I'd want someone to do for my little sister in the same situation," he replied, knowing full well that Bella would be crying hysterically if she had been accosted as this fiery redhead had been. He polished off the last of his beignet. "Or maybe because you're very pretty, and I wanted to meet you."

"Ah, an honest man." She giggled.

"What's funny?"

"Piano lessons, whatever possessed you to say that?"

He shrugged again. "I just needed to get you out of there_._ Bella's piano teacher comes right after lunch, so I, uh, improvised."

"Bella is your sister, I presume? How old is she?"

"Isabella. She's sixteen, same as you." He winked. "Except that Bella really _is _sixteen."

"So I improvised, too." She smirked at him and then turned serious. "Do you really think the Yankees will do anything to me?"

"It wouldn't surprise me. You were openly disrespectful to a member of the United States Army, and you subjected him to public humiliation."

Enraged, she responded like the young girl she was. "He humiliated me first!"

"True, but you don't have the backing of General Benjamin Butler and the Union Army on your side. This person you live with and work—or don't work—for, will she protect you?"

"I…I'm not sure. She's been good to me, but…I don't know if she'd protect me or not. I mean, I think she'd want to, but…well…let's face it…the Yankee officers make up a big part of her business, and I'm not sure she'd risk losing that to protect me." Frightened now that she thought of the very real possibility of repercussions for her impetuous act, she asked in a small voice, "What do you think they'll do to me?"

"I have no idea. Maybe the workhouse. Or the penitentiary. Maybe nursing. Or, God forbid, you could be exiled to Ship Island like Mrs. Phillips."

**TBC**

**XXXXX**

**Note 1:**

**ORDER NO. 28**

**HEADQUARTERS, DEPARTMENT OF THE GULF**

**NEW ORLEANS**

**MAY 15, 1862**

"As the officers and soldiers of the United States have been subject to repeated insults from the women (calling themselves ladies) of New Orleans in return for the most scrupulous non-interference and courtesy on our part, it is ordered that hereafter when any female shall by word, gesture, or movement insult or show contempt for any officer or soldier of the United States she shall be regarded and held liable to be treated as a woman of the town plying her avocation."

+++All sources I checked used the word "avocation" instead of what I think would be the more accurate "vocation." Unless, of course, Butler looked upon prostitution as a hobby.

**NOTE 2:**

In keeping with General Butler's Order No. 28, Mrs. Philip Phillips, a New Orleans resident and southern sympathizer, was exiled to the Yankee prison on Ship Island, a desolate barrier island twelve miles off the coast of Mississippi in the Gulf of Mexico, charged with the crime of laughing when a funeral parade for a Yankee officer passed beneath her balcony.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Man in the Red Pantaloons**

**Chapter Three**

**Dodge City**

**July 1876**

_**AN: Many thanks to all who have left such kind comments for my little tale. I'm sorry I can't PM my thanks to each of you individually, but I have no way to reach those of you without an account, so please know that I do appreciate your reading and taking the time to comment so positively. LoD**_

**xxxxx**

Jean-Yves Durant stood when he saw Kitty at last heading in his direction, and he pulled out a chair before taking the heavy pitcher from her hand. "I was beginning to think you forgot about me."

She blew a wisp of hair from her warm face. "I'm sorry, Johnny. The herds are in, and we've been busy. It's great for the coffers, but bad for sitting and chatting with old friends. It's late, things'll settle down now." She put the glasses on the table and dropped into the proffered chair. "It is so good to see you, Johnny, but what on earth brings you to Dodge?"

He laughed. "I was wondering the same thing about you—sitting here entertaining myself with all kinds of scenarios that might land you on the Kansas prairie. This isn't your world, Kitty."

She hesitated a fraction of a second before answering. "There was a time I would have agreed with you, but now…" She stopped in mid-sentence to wave to the very large man with the star on his chest who had returned to the saloon and was carefully scanning the room. "Over here, Matt. Grab a glass."

With beer mug in one hand and the fingers of the other touching the brim of his hat, the marshal approached the table, his penetrating gaze darting from Kitty to the stranger and back again. "Everything all right here, Kitty?"

"Everything's fine, Matt. Johnny's an old friend. Johnny, meet United States Marshal Matt Dillon. Matt, this is Jean-Yves Durant, who was just about to tell me what he's doing so far from New Orleans."

"It's a pleasure, Marshal."

"Same here, Durant." Matt kicked out a chair and sat down as close to Kitty as he dared in the very public room. "Go on, don't let me interrupt."

"It's no great mystery, but there's not much to tell. I'm just passing through on my way to Cheyenne. I've accepted a position as private tutor to the young sons of the new governor."

Kitty's eyes widened. "Well, I'm impressed. Not only a tutor, but for the governor's children, no less. Is that what you've been doing in New Orleans—tutoring?"

He nodded. "For several years." His hand touched his empty sleeve. "Thanks for not asking about this right off, by the way. Fact is, after the war, there weren't a lot of options for a mustered out Zouave with only one arm, and my family had lost practically everything, including our home, so I couldn't very well sit back and rest on their laurels." He shrugged. "I had to do something. Latin always came as naturally to me as French and English, so I negotiated with the archbishop for a tutoring position in the seminary school in exchange for room and board. I discovered I liked teaching, and what's more, I was actually good at it. I added the classics and mathematics to my repertoire, and, _violà, _a teacher was born. That's about it." He poured another beer from the pitcher and glanced up as a short, older man in a pork pie hat shuffled over to the table.

"Is this a private party or can a tired physician sit down and rest his weary bones?"

"Sit down, Doc. I'd like you to meet an old friend. This is Jean-Yves Durant, direct from New Orleans. Johnny, this is Doc Adams, Dodge City's physician extraordinaire."

"And that's the truth," Doc quipped as he sat down. "Pleased to meet you, Durant. Any friend of Kitty's…." He waved his hand. "New Orleans. You and Kitty childhood playmates, were you?"

"New Orleans, yes, playmates, no. I didn't meet Kitty until the war, when I rescued her from the clutches of a damned Yankee." He glanced at the other two men. "I beg your pardon, marshal…doctor, but the occupation forces didn't always behave in a gentlemanly way."

Doc scrubbed at his mustache. "I'm well aware of that. I saw plenty of ungentlemanly attentions paid to the young ladies in Richmond. So, how did you come to rescue Kitty?"

Matt slid one long arm along the back of Kitty's chair and leaned in close to the woman he loved. "You okay with this?" he asked quietly. "Because if you aren't…."

"It's fine, Matt," she answered and then spoke to the entire table. "Johnny, these men are my very best and dearest friends, but there are some things they don't know about me. I suspect this is going to come as a surprise to them."

Doc shook his head. "Not going to surprise me. Kitty was a nurse, took care of you during the war, didn't she?" He ticked his head in the direction of Durant's empty sleeve.

"No, this came later—Chattanooga—took a Minié ball in the shoulder." He paused a moment as if remembering, and then continued. "Fact is, I met Kitty just before she became a nurse."

Matt pushed the big Stetson back on his head, a rare look of astonishment crossing his face. "Doc was right about that part? You really were a nurse?"

She nodded. "It was inadvertent," she deadpanned.

Between the two of them, Kitty and Jean-Yves Durant related the story of Kitty's encounter with the Yankee sergeant, as well as her subsequent trial before a kangaroo court of Union officers where the verdict had been determined long before she ever passed through the doors of the old Customs House that served as General Butler's headquarters. As Johnny had predicted, she was sentenced to perform nursing duties in the indigent ward of Charity Hospital until the end of the war, pursuant to Order Number 28, as befitting a woman of the town plying her avocation.

Matt's jaw tightened, and his face flushed with fury as he ground out, "What the…. 'a woman of the town plying her avocation.' You were a child, Kitty. A fifteen year old child!"

Kitty placed her hand over his. "Take it easy, Matt. It was a long time ago."

"This woman you lived with, she didn't help you?" Doc asked his question around a swallow of beer.

"Oh, she tried to negotiate with General Butler for a lighter—or at least a shorter—sentence, but…well, the terms they set were worse than the nursing sentence, so…."

"What kind of terms?"

"Oh, Matt." She squeezed his fingers. "Now don't get all upset again, but Butler's idea of a reduced sentence for what he referred to as my 'transgression' was to remain at the gambling establishment," she smiled at her choice of words for the ornate old house—two houses, really, joined by a common courtyard—on Decatur Street, "and to…uh…make myself available… to the Yankee soldiers on demand." Her nose wrinkled in distaste at the thought. "Nursing, even compulsory nursing in less than ideal conditions, was better than that. Fortunately, the sentence wasn't nearly as long as it might have been. Beast Butler was removed from command at the end of the year, and most of the punishments handed down as a result of the Order were commuted or overturned." She grinned at her handsome cowboy. "And, you have to admit I did learn some things that have come in handy once or twice since I've been in Dodge. So, aside from the humiliation, it wasn't all that bad."

"Yeah, but at what cost? Being treated like a piece of property…losing your self-respect…." It was obvious Matt was still seething at the indignities heaped upon a very young Kitty. He turned to Doc. "How'd you know, Doc? About the nursing, I mean."

"Obvious. First time I asked her to hand me a probe—to dig a bullet out of _you_, I might add—she handled it like a pro, picked up just the right instrument and passed it to me in the correct position. An amateur doesn't do things like that."

"And you never said a word," Kitty said softly. "Thanks, Doc."

The old man shook his head. "None of my business. I figured it was probably something like that, and if you wanted us to know, you'd tell us. I knew you were from New Orleans, and I'd heard of Order 28 and its…shall we say…its implications. I suspected that red-headed temper might have gotten you into some sort of difficulty." Doc winked and downed the last of his beer. "And now I'm going to bed. I'm heading out into the country first thing in the morning, and I have a long drive and a long day ahead of me." He stood. "Nice to meet, you, Johnny."

"Hold up, Doc. I'll walk with you. I want to take one last tour around town before turning in." Matt pushed himself out of the chair and held out his hand. "Durant, it's been a pleasure." He turned to Kitty, his blue eyes softening beneath the wide brim of his hat, and nodded. "I'll see you later, Kitty."

Jean-Yves watched the two men depart—one an elderly, wise and perceptive physician, the other a taciturn, gentle and ruggedly handsome lawman who, he strongly suspected, was much more than just a friend to the gorgeous and spirited redhead. "You're a lucky lady, Kitty. You have good friends here who love and respect you. They care about you, and they want to protect you. I was wrong, this _is _your world now."

She smiled gently at her first and earliest protector. "I _am_ a lucky lady, Johnny—a very lucky lady." Her sapphire eyes turned tender as Matt's tall shadow passed by the window. "And this is definitely where I belong. This is home."

**xxx**

**Later**

"I'm sorry, Kitty."

"Mmm…." She shifted beneath the warm body of the man she loved. "About what? That was wonderful, Matt. You have nothing to apologize for."

"I'm apologizing for the entire Union Army and for what they did to you."

She tried not to laugh and pressed her lips into his tousled dark curls. "Oh, Matt, haven't you learned yet that you're not personally responsible for all the evil in the world, or that you can't protect the entire world from the bad guys?"

He lifted his head. "I'm not trying to protect the entire world—just you." He placed a kiss on her lips and cupped one full breast in his huge hand.

"I'm not so sure about that," she murmured. "But I am sure about one thing."

"Mmmm, what's that?"

"Not every man who wore a blue uniform was a bad guy." She sighed contentedly and wrapped her legs around his hips, surrendering herself completely to her own Yankee soldier.

**The End**

**Final Note: **Historically, it was not unusual for saloon girls, prostitutes and/or female inmates to be called upon to perform nursing duties in times of emergency or epidemics. While not specifically addressed, we can this in the "Pest Hole" episode of Gunsmoke. And now I promise not to bother you with any more historical trivia—at least not until the next story.


End file.
